


Gifts of Grain and Gold

by SylvanWitch



Series: Blessed Sabbats [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:07:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean celebrate Lammas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifts of Grain and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> At Lammas, the God is mature and golden, beautiful in his power but starting to show his age. The earth offers up its second harvest, and we give thanks.

The heat of the noonday sun is a physical force, pressing him into the brown earth of the furrow between tall sheaves of gathered wheat, and as cicadas chitter up through their minor scales, Dean squints into the haze and considers that perhaps there’s something undignified about lying naked at forty in a field of freshly harvested wheat.

 

With the smell of the golden sheaves heavy in his nostrils and his brother beside him, leaning up on one arm to look down the length of Dean’s bronzed body, though, he can’t seem to find it in him to care.

 

If he turns his head to look across the humped rows of furrowed earth, he can see the heat rising in waves from the ground, but the heat of Sam’s hand making patterns in the sweat on his skin is far more immediate to Dean, who is amazed that he has turned forty at all when thirty had for so long looked impossible to them both.

 

Turning his head away from the dark loss of that thought, Dean takes in Sam’s face, a view he never tires of.  Threads of silver streak his hair around his ears, and his eyes are crinkled with tiny lines at the corner, lines that match the ones around his mouth and others making inroads along his brow.  Lines, Dean knows, that he put there himself, lines grown out of what they were and are, not the lovers and brothers part, not even the hunters part, though that has brought some sorrow to them both over the years.

 

No, the part that haunts his brother is something only Sam can hold, only he can name, really, though Dean does his best to understand.

 

Sometimes, Sam’s eyes are the color of the wheat that towers around them, like accusing arrows pointing to a heaven Dean’s still not sure he believes in.

 

Here now, in the pressing heat of August, however, Dean can feel something holy.

 

Under the sure weight of Sam’s hand, he finds asylum of a sort no church ever offered.

 

In the pull of gravity he feels his body bound to the earth as it moves, ponderous, through the seasons.

 

Time, to Dean, is a mystery he refuses to solve.  For all the lines drawn across Sam’s beautiful face, there is something eternally young in him, and, too, an ancient and ageless thing that makes Dean shiver to think of it.

 

Sam’s hand has dipped into the hollow of his belly, a belly still flat and hard, though perhaps leaner than it once was, carved away by age and time and the rigors of their life.  Sam skims across the long scar that marks where Dean was once gutted, pauses at the inverted comma of the point at which the knife was dragged upward toward his waiting heart.

 

Dean moves his hand over Sam’s and guides his brother lower, through the soft trail of hair and to the waiting flesh that is not soft, except the skin of it, silk over iron, a yearning thing.

 

Sam’s laugh is deep and Dean’s shaft twitches in response to it, always ready for his brother even after all these years of familiar touch.

 

On the back of Sam’s hand is a scar, a curled mark that unfurls from between his middle fingers and makes a question mark that ends at the place where a watch would sit, if Sam wore a watch.

 

He can’t seem to keep them running, though, not since…

Sam’s hand wraps firm around Dean, slides upward in an insistent move, almost too rough, and Dean clenches his teeth to keep in the bark he wants to loose.

 

“Don’t hide from me, Dean,” Sam says, voice rough like the wheat that shifts in its towers as the afternoon breeze moves across them.  “I want to hear you.”

 

Dean obliges, letting his breath out in a harsh exhale that carries with it the hint of a whine.

 

Sam’s hand speeds up, his other busy out of sight between his own legs, and Dean wants so badly to see what Sam is doing, but he knows that his brother won’t let him up, wants him spread out before him in the field of golden grain, a sacrifice to their passion.

 

Just when Dean is sure he cannot stand another moment of the rough-perfect-right of Sam’s working hand, Sam stops, and in one fluid motion he straddles his brother, hovering over him for the space of several breaths, in which time Sam just looks at him, finally whispering, “God, Dean,” and seating himself effortlessly on Dean’s straining shaft, sliding down in slow stutters that wrack Dean to writhing and make him curse and moan.

 

Thrashing his head against the hot earth, Dean surges upward, ignoring the twinge in his bad knee and the way his lower back protests the effort, feeling only Sam surrounding him, hotter than the sun above them, heavier than the rotating earth at his back. 

 

He becomes Sam then, joined as they are, no longer fractured but more than the sum of their living flesh, more than the panted words that spill from Dean unbidden, more than the way that Sam arches his back to angle himself down onto Dean so that their flesh meets in every place it is possible, so that Dean can strike the sparking spot within his brother and watch Sam shudder apart above him, his seed arcing in a perfect wave across his own sweating flesh.

 

Dean groans when he smells Sam on his skin, and when his brother lets out a whine at the spent end of his orgasm, Dean thrusts upward one last, desperate time, riving his brother’s still-clenching flesh and feeling himself come apart, so many scattered atoms caught by the breeze.

 

For long moments in which Dean cannot breathe, he sees nothing but golden motes behind his eyes, feels the way the world moves around him, slowing, and wonders in the way that the thunder of his heart echoes the rocking water of the sea, the way the wind moves its fingers through the trees of a distant forest, the rising boom and woof of a great volcano, the tumbling drums of a rockslide where a mountain slips its skin.

 

Then Sam is gentling him back, calling his name on soft lips, blowing breath across his eyelids, which he flutters open to see his beautiful brother rising over him once more, eclipsing the sun with his shadow, his eyes hidden but his mouth a wide smile that promises tomorrow.

 

They might be aging.

 

Dean might see in his own face the signs of autumn, feel in his creaking joints the coming cold of winter, sense in the place where his eyes cannot quite see a growing darkness that cannot be countered.

 

For now, though, they are golden gods in the grain, cradled in the earth’s arms and open to the sun’s hot eye.  Brothers, lovers, all and ever, eternal.  Sam’s name is a prayer Dean never tires of saying, and this sacrament of sacred flesh will save them yet.


End file.
